Too long for words, to short for novels
by Captain Reindeer
Summary: With his brother away on state duties, Alphonse is left in the company of his own mind and cheap romance novels for an entire week. He finds that far too many aspects of the novels relate to his own life; specifically, the relationship with his brother. Elricest, ish.


Okay! Hai gaiz. It's been a long time since I've been to , and a long time since I've written a decent story.

I have to explain a few things. Firstly, this is an Elricest fanfic, it is a yaoi pairing, and it is incest, if you aren't comfortable with that I'd recommend you stop reading.

Now that it's all fellow shippers here, I have to explain some details! This does not come after a particular series, but it is after the series has come to an end. Edward is fifteen, Alphonse is fourteen, and the second resembles himself in Shamballa, that godawful movie. Because he was fucking adorable.

Finally, it's been a very long time since I've written anything worthy of other peoples eyes, and my writing style had been infuriating me. After reading Life of Pi- which, for those who don't know, is about a boy stranded on a boat with only a tiger- I decided to change my style. My stories were always digalouge, with pathetic explanation/narration. So, I found an easy solution; write a love story with only one character present. Hence why, at least this chapter is mainly just reflections. And likely shit.

It also needs a better name, any ideas are more than welcome!

I waarrned you, it's elricest, different to the series, and poorly written, so.

Enjoy!

:D

* * *

The afternoon was always the longest part of the day.  
A book lay forgotten across the fabric of a white shirt, the words of the open page muted by fabric. Bronze eyes watched the space where sun-touched paddocks met the sky, fields of dry grass flickering like fire against the vivid blue. He was too lost in thought to notice the glory of the country town glowing in the afternoon sun, too lost to even hear the chorus of voices as people went about their days, oblivious to the heat. The streets were bustling with the pleasant chaos of a local market, people chattered like birds, the voices of eager salesmen cawing higher than others and rich scents wafting through the open window, carried by the warm breeze and bringing with it the even richer sound of music. As naturally as singing birds, the sound of musicians performing in the street melded into the background, even the astounded applause of onlookers was simply ignored.  
Alphonse Elric was too lost in thought.  
He'd thought that he could bare a few days alone. He thought he would be fine without his brothers company. But he had realised on the very first night that nothing was more depressing than sitting on a creaking wooden chair at a restaurant no bigger than a few tables, whose decor resembled an abandoned shack, eating a poor tasting meal in silence.  
That night the calendar became his favourite possession. One week, Edward had said. And every day was eagerly marked on paper. Then it became the clock. Every hour seemed to pass in agony, and every cross he marked became his relief, his strange little high.  
With an annoyed huff- and a sneaky glance at the calendar, which he denied having- he tucked a little ribbon in the page of his book. A tendril of blue caught his eye, and he paused to run a single finger along his own wrist. Amazing, he thought with a light smile, the mess of string hiding beneath his skin. Veins, that resembled wriggling worms that had frozen in time and turned a comedic shade of blue - but were very much alive and warm - could be felt beating strongly beneath a thin layer of sinew. Human. Amazing.  
He caught himself staring at the calendar again. He shook his head angrily, as though the action would scare the habitat away.  
Aside from the lack of company, the thing he found so painful about his week of solitude was finding something to pass the time. Books had been the easiest escape. But Edward had a strange problem with fiction novels- one that he was happy to share with his brother- and so many things reminded him of Edward. And Edwards complaining.  
He hated cliches. He complained about a lack creativity and originality as though it had been stealing his meals, which was a lot like an angry old man complaining about a stolen newspaper. He hated the story of the hero. The fictional struggle of a fictional character seemed to offend him more than Mustang could ever hope to. Alphonse could understand that one, having lived through his own struggle where Edward played the hero. People dreaming up ideas about loss and suffering, journeys and adventures, was like a cruel joke to the brothers. Alphonse tried his hardest to avoid those books.  
He hated romance. In an effort to stop his brothers complaining, noise, and general annoying behaviour, Alphonse had forced a collection of books in Edwards face. The romance novels became the new source of complaining. Shamefully, Alphonse secretly delighted in the mumbled insults that his brother hissed when he was talking about romance stories, because he couldn't keep his eyes from the ground nor the blush from his cheeks as he argued "it's so unrealistic," "do people actually enjoy this crap?" "It wouldn't go like that!"  
Why did they own so many novels in the first place? That was a joint effort on both their parts. Alphonse had bought them, but Edward had started it. Having gotten all that he'd needed from the military, Edward resigned from his role as a State Alchemist as soon as humanly possible. At first, the brothers were so happy that everyone around them was getting sick of their smiles, but as more days passed, Edwards mood rapidly deteriorated.  
They thought it was the scenery. Alphonse had taken a long time to readjust to being human, and the brothers had stayed in one spot for far longer than usual. So as soon as they were able, they moved on to the next town. That solved their problem for a few days, then like an ever-persistent insect, the cloud retook its seat above Edwards head and his face seemed set in a permanent frown. The next time they moved it only took a matter of hours. Alphonse had been the one to figure it out; staying in one place was only a small factor, it was the lack of doing that was making his brother so edgy. From then, their days were filled with as many activities as they could manage, but the time between dusk and sleep was still as painful. For both of them. On rare mornings, Alphonse would be greeted by the sight of a tangle of limbs, blankets, and drool, but on usual nights Edward did not sleep well. Typically, he wouldn't sleep until the twilight hours of morning, and that made living with a purposeless teen even more unbearable because, not only did he never shut up, he also kept his brother awake with his general hatred of everything.  
Alphonse practically threw his brother through the doorway of Central Headquarters. The silver pocketwatch was eagerly awaiting its owner on Mustangs desk.  
But why so many romance novels?  
That was Alphonses fault.  
Cold metal could not feel; no touch, no heat, and no emotions. Humans, however, felt everything. It had been a bit too exciting for the poor boy at first, and he delighted in the absolute simplest of things- the feeling of a pulse beneath skin, the sharp, cool sensation of air filling lungs, the maddening ringing in ears- but in those years his emotions had become foreign, uncontrollable burdens. The simplest things would infuriate him, which was rare for the sweet, innocent Alphonse Elric. Sometimes he was over affectionate, and loved to attach himself to his brother until Edward banished him to the other side of the room, claiming that Alphonses hugs were going to break his ribs. And then he realised how badly he needed those hugs, how long he had spent unable to feel at all, or- on the worst days- how much the brothers had lost, and he'd be reduced to a sobbing mess. Then hugs were allowed again.  
There was one sensation that perplexed him. People spoke about, people raved about it, whispered, swooned... People adored it. Love, romance, dating, no matter what it was called, Alphonse had no understanding of it. He had been suspicious that he'd already experienced it, but how can you define a feeling so strong when you'd spent four years in a vacuum? That's why he found those novels. Their book collection was filled with amazing resources. Textbooks thicker than trees, research compiled over lifetimes, but sensations were not taught in any of these. They were books of facts, of science and logic, and from Alphonses understanding love was completely illogical. It certainly was in his case.  
He devoured page after page of the novels in his desperate search for an understanding, for some sort of enlightenment. Some stories were so cliche they sounded like bad jokes. Some stories were so vivid that he finished them in record speed, after skipping past the more descriptive scenes with awkward giggles and an embarrassed blush on his cheeks. What he found in the sappy dribbles of desperate women and lonely men was one consistent theory, one idea that seemed to define love; the desire to spend each and every day with one soul.  
The moment the concept flowered in his head, Alphonse rested the current book in his lap, not caring if he lost the page. In silence, he turned to his brother and stared, Edward was entertaining himself by attempting to balance pens on various parts of his desk, when he met his brothers gaze he looked very much like a child caught in the act, and responded with a guilty-sounding "What?"  
Alphonse could only stare.  
He felt like a blubbering fool convicted of a crime in the dark ages. His mind tried desperately to come up with an excuse, but there were flaws in every one. Years of affection, of endurance, pain, sadness, happiness and relief shared with his brother... It was nothing more than family and a families love. But desire was not part of that definition. And yet, Alphonse desired his brother.  
By definition, he loved Edward. He had always loved him, everyone knew that, and he was proud of that. But also by definition, he was in love with Edward. The books all had consistent ideas, as though they were all written with a list in mind, the author would casually mark them all with little red crosses and when the page reached its end, the novel was finished.  
Alphonse also used that checklist as a guide. He never was brave enough to write it, of course, of Edward was to find it his curious nature would cause the end of his baby brother. The idea of explaining such nonsense practically sent him into cardiac arrest.  
So using his database of romance novels as a guide, Alphonse marked things from his list. All novels had the same general pattern. First was the meeting. The most common scenario was a bump in a busy street, a word of apology and the meeting of two stares. Then that was it, love at first sight. Then it was the friend of a friend, a casual introduction that would lead to an endless infatuation. For this particular couple it had been a possessive Edward defending his mother from the new source of affection, and Alphonse too young to even be capable of coherent thought. It was not the usual start to a love story, but love stories weren't typically written about two brothers.  
The next title on the list was the wooing, the transition from friend or awkward focus of stalking into the crush. Alphonse had never felt so relieved as the moment he reached that tittle. The second point had already proved that he was not in love with his brother. But the idea kept making its way back into his thoughts. He eventually realised that there had never been a transition. He had always loved Edward. When they were younger it was the love of two brothers, when they play-fought in the grass, raced each other to the river or took turns poking that strange slimy patch with sticks, it was the love shared between two young children growing and learning the world together. After Edward received his qualification with the state, it became something new. It was no longer play-fighting, stick poking, or falling asleep on each other in the shade, it became a purpose. The brothers lived for each other, for each others happiness and protection, and would gladly sacrifice themselves for their other. When they finally reached their goal and their days became safer and slower, the stress and tension wore away and their lives became quiet. Quiet days had always been slightly scary to both of them; their lives were devoted to restoring their bodies, what would they do after that? Settle into steady lives, get day jobs, get married, buy houses, father armies of children? After the excitement they'd seen in their lives, the daily grind and nuclear family was a bland, colourless idea.  
Shamefully, Alphonse marked the second item on the list with a giant mental X, red and ugly like blood. He had always loved his brother, it simply changed depending on his situation in life. Now that there was nothing else to distract him, he found every day to be filled with Edward and Edwards company, with chats with Edward and laughs with him and hours spent at his side.  
Then there was drama. A lover would be caught cheating, or would be forced to move away, family would deny their love, or one would simply become sick of their other and the relationship would crumble to doubt filled shards. That idea was quickly painted with a red X. Their whole life had been drama filled with doubt that tested both their loyalty and sanity.  
The novels all had different sub-specifications that Alphonse chose to ignore, but they all had the key points and they all lead to the same step; the awkward confession. After weeks of sickening denial, self-hate, embarrassment, mental arguments, consideration, acceptance and finally infatuation, Alphonse began the guilty dreaming of a love-struck schoolgirl. He came up with so many situations, from an awkward stumble over words to the intense and intentional kiss. The scenes kept chasing, sometimes under soft moonlight, a wander through the park, huddling in a snowy storm or sitting on the bed of their hotel. He had planned exactly how it would go, exactly what he'd say and how his brother would react, but life does not follow his script. He woke one night to a feeling of weight shifting on his bed, and he watched with sleepy eyes as his brother crossed the room to the balcony, his back to the sleepy boy as he leant against the rails. His body flickered with shivers occasionally, his pose was rigid and guarded. He'd had a nightmare.  
In his fictional dreams, Alphonse had always been the one to start the conversation, sometimes he'd start a speech about how much he appreciated and loved his brother, others he simply blurted three words and Edward would stare at him in a daze. But when he wandered to his brothers side Edward was the one to squeeze him in a strong hug, his whisky eyes saying all the words that his mouth would not, the words that his brother had been dreaming to hear. It was sealed with a shy kiss and they simply went back to bed.  
Their mornings were the same, Edward devoured his food in the usual time and immediately started on his brothers plate, Alphonse struggled with making a cup of tea between convincing his brother to do his work, and they day was normal. The only change was the over-affectionate glances they shared, the lingering touches against each others skin, and a night spent entangled in the others arms.  
From then on, they were dating.  
A wordless, awkward kiss between two boys in their underwear on they balcony of a cheap hotel was never used in stories. There was no chasing of a leaving train, no screaming the others name through a storm, just a simple gesture. Alphonse concluded that romance novels were silly and unrealistic.  
And yet he was still reading them out of pure boredom.  
The calendar became the focus again as Alphonse abandoned the book on his sheet, limping to the kitchen as pins and needles chomped contently on the nerves in his leg. Evidence of their lives was scattered all over the bench, books and pens were abandoned in unusual places and teetering precariously on edges. Edward had the bad habit of leaving things in dangerous places. Normally, things never stayed out of their homes for longer than a day as Alphonse could not stand the clutter his brother caused, but now it had become a source of depressing affection since it reminded him of Edwards presence.  
Poking out from beneath a book like a sprig of strangely fake grass was a little collection of notes, money that Edward had left for Alphonse to pay for everything he'd needed and -after a few sexists jokes and jabs at his brother- Edward decided the safest place for it to be kept was the kitchen. Alphonse didn't bother to argue against his brothers reasoning, even though he was far more careful of where he kept things that his forgetful elder.  
With a quick snap he'd plucked a few notes from the book and continued to the door, taking one final look at the calendar for the thousandth time.  
The week was almost over.


End file.
